


Entry Point

by the_ragnarok



Series: Happy Endings [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 20:56:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their first job in San Francisco. In which Arthur gets into the job market and Eames realizes things are a bit more difficult than they seemed at first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entry Point

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DarlingLisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarlingLisa/gifts).



> Written for my help_nz auction story. Beta'd by anatsuno, who is made of every good thing.

He thought, at first, that he might ask Arthur to come straight to the abandoned hotel they've been using as makeshift headquarters. But while Eames has lived and learned enough to master self-control, he's not actually masochistic.

There's a short moment, in his hotel room (which is a good twenty minutes drive from said headquarters – Eames firmly believes in separating work and leisure), when Eames sits on his bed and wonders.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, surely. In full honesty, they've had more absences between them than moments where they were both present. He reminds himself that his memories of Arthur are likely tinged by the rosy glow of first infatuation, then the adrenaline thrill of being on the run.

Even Arthur's dry voice on the phone makes Eames want to shudder with anticipation. Surely he's making this into more than it is. Surely nothing real can be quite as good as this sounds.

So he prepares himself for the fall, for the disappointment of reality. Tells himself firmly that even if Arthur is somewhat less devilishly handsome or whip-smart, Eames will still find him perfectly amazing. Considering the height of his expectations, even a reality very far from them could hardly be displeasing.

He’s waiting in the lobby, hiding behind a huge potted ficus, when a young man in a fitted suit walks in and looks around cautiously.

 _No_ , Eames realizes distantly, heart thudding in his chest as if to make a great escape. _I wasn't misremembering him at all._ Definitely not in the matter of appearances. And – as Eames watches him move – incidents come to mind. Arthur's dry wit, the rapid progression of his thoughts, those fantastically clever hands.

He doesn't even realize he stepped out of his hiding place until Arthur's eyes focus on him, and his face is transformed by the most brilliant smile Eames has ever seen.

"Come on," Eames says, walking to him briskly.

Arthur's smile turns into a half-curve of his mouth, eyebrow twitching up momentarily.

"Mustn't dawdle," Eames says, jerking his head towards the elevator. "Plenty of work to be done."

He doesn't turn his head back towards Arthur. This is how he manages to refrain from kissing him until they're both inside his room.

Arthur's hands clench in his hair. Eames' hand has found a nice warm resting place in the dip of Arthur's spine right above his arse, the other gripping Arthur's shoulder as Eames pushes him against the wall.

"Nice seeing you too," Arthur says breathlessly before pulling Eames in for more kisses. This thoroughly meets Eames' approval.

Eames licks at Arhur's lips, bites at the corner of his mouth, not at all gentle. Arthur doesn't seem to mind in the least, pointedly thrusting his hips out at Eames in what feels like a request. Eames steps back to get his hands on Arthur's belt buckle, and the cold metal against his fingertips just brings the heat of Arthur's mouth against his into sharper relief.

He falls to his knees almost without thinking about it – there is Arthur's warm stomach to nuzzle, after all, Arthur's strong thighs to bite, Arthur's cock to take down his throat until they're both lightheaded with it.

But Arthur pulls him up by the shoulders. It's not a hint, Arthur literally pulls him up from the floor – _Fuck, he's strong,_ Eames thinks, dazed, and falls on the bed without further resistance.

Arthur's there, straddling him, almost before he can notice. Smirking down at him, the bastard.

"Anything you care to share?" Eames inquires, as sweetly polite as he can with Arthur _right there_ , all lickable and touchable and _grinning_ at him.

Arthur leans down, looking into Eames' eyes with an intensity that Eames is just now remembering. "No," he says after a moment, as if he'd given the question serious thought. "Not anything I'd like to share at all."

And that's... something, but Eames doesn't have time to think about it before Arthur's pulling him out of his clothes, tearing at his shirt with obvious impatience.

"Fuck," Arthur says, into his ear. "I want to do _everything_ to you."

Eames shudders. Arthur's voice does _things_ to him, makes him feel like tipping his head back and arching his spine and begging for more. He feels a soft touch and opens his eyes to see Arthur pressing his lips to Eames' hipbone. He puts his hand on the top of Arthur's head without thinking, and Arthur smiles at him, wonderful and open.

 _Yeah_ , Eames thinks, feeling a little punch-drunk. _Yes. This._.

It's easy to open his legs and let Arthur crawl up over him, pushing against him, trying to kiss Eames' mouth and missing more often than not. Eames holds Arthur by the back of his neck and makes his head be still even as the rest of his body can't be, opens up for Arthur's tongue, everything warm and slippery-wet between them, Arthur moving faster, his rhythm faltering, until he groans and _shoves_ against Eames, hands clenching harder on Eames’ shoulders as he comes, tucking his face into Eames' neck. He stays there for a moment, panting, while Eames pets every bit of available skin.

Then Arthur raises his head, and gives him a knowing look.

He pulls away, and Eames can't help a protesting whine, a halted gesture to grab Arthur and keep him close. Then Arthur's hand is on Eames' cock, and Eames can't. Can't think, can't move. Can't do anything but pant and stare at Arthur.

"You come for me," Arthur says, his voice like a physical touch, better. "Right the fuck now."

Eames does, there and then, helpless to resist. Drops of his come land on Arthur's lower lip. Arthur's tongue darts out to taste them, and that is more than Eames can stand.

He flips them over, pinning Arthur to the bed, licking Arthur's face worshipfully clean.

By the time he's done, Arthur's head is tipping aside, Arthur's eyes mostly closed already. Eames feels a rush of affection at this Arthur, sleepy and pliant under him. Who nuzzles at Eames' face when Eames leans close, mostly asleep and probably unaware he's doing it. Eames kisses his cheek softly and curls up around him after wiping them both with a stray corner of the sheet.

~~

Eames wakes up to the sound of something crashing.

It comes from the bathroom, where – it turns out – Arthur just managed to dump a whole array of various toiletries into the sink, probably by first knocking the shelf above the sink off its holders.

Arthur turns to look at Eames. He's sleep-mussed, blinking owlishly, looking all of fourteen.

Eames pulls him close and presses a kiss against his temple. "Go get dressed," he says, pushing Arthur firmly out. Sighing, he bends to put everything back in place. The first order of the day, it seems, is to get Arthur properly caffeinated.

When Eames finishes brushing his teeth, Arthur's pacing the room. He's put trousers on, but he hasn't buttoned his shirt. Eames is quite frankly torn between appreciating the view and remembering they have to be at work in an hour.

Arthur stops and turns to look at him. His hair is wild, disheveled. Arthur didn't cut it as he said he would, and Eames is selfishly glad of that.

"What is it?" Eames says, after Arthur keeps staring in silence.

Arthur sits down on the bed with a thump. "Eames," he says. "What the hell am I _doing_?" His perfectly level voice cracks on that last syllable, and Eames is sitting on the bed next to him in a flash.

"You're going to be astounding, darling." It's not empty praise. Eames, admittedly, is nowhere near above flattery, but using that on Arthur is not only foolish, but completely unnecessary. Arthur knows everything he needs to know – well, most things. He'll pick the rest up soon enough. This is Eames' (not inconsiderable) observational ability speaking.

The look Arthur gives him is withering. "If I wanted to be patronized, I'd – "

Eames kisses him before he finishes that sentence. "What on earth are you worried about, in any case?"

Arthur opens his mouth, closes it, and gestures helplessly instead. This free-floating anxiety isn't like him; Eames has never seen him behave like this. It's oddly upsetting.

"You should finish getting dressed, for a start," Eames says, and Arthur nods and stand up.

He's not sure how his hands made their way to button Arthur's shirt up for him. He half expects Arthur to bat them away in irritation. But instead Arthur looks down at Eames' hands making their way towards his collar, quiet, expression revealing nothing.

"There," Eames says, once Arthur is buttoned up. "All done." Then, on a whim, he opens Arthur's suitcase and fishes out a waistcoat.

Arthur looks at him, skeptic. "Wouldn't I be a little overdressed?"

"Not if it looks good on you," Eames says with authority. "Then it's just making everyone else feel underdressed". Privately he adds, _And you can use any psychological advantage your clothes give you._ No reason to make Arthur worry.

So Arthur lets Eames put the waistcoat on him. Eames lays his hands on it, feeling Arthur's chest expand, the warmth of him under the thick cloth.

When he pulls it closed, Arthur lets that breath out and looks Eames in the eye. His pupils dilate. Eames thinks he can feel Arthur's heartbeat slow under his hands, but perhaps that's just fancy.

He's certainly not imagining the way Arthur licks his lips, the slightly deeper timber of his voice. Bloody hell, he'd forgotten how much Arthur _likes_ this. How could he forget?

Eames is having some serious second thoughts about going to work like this. About going to work at all, really, when he could just throw Arthur on the bed and –

Arthur picks up a tie and presents Eames with it. "Could you?" There's no shyness in his voice, but there is an odd formality. Eames knows Arthur's perfectly capable of doing his own tie, but, well. He did ask.

As he tightens his Windsor knot around Arthur's neck, all but the last of Arthur's tension goes out of him. Then he blinks and looks at Eames, and there's something else there, an unknown quantity that Eames would very much like to get better acquainted with.

"One last thing," Eames says, and steps into the bathroom. He comes back bearing a comb and some hair gel, which Arthur eyes with obvious distrust.

"Oh, don't pout so," Eames says. "It will make you look ever so professional."

Arthur snorts, but lets Eames groom his hair into submission. He grows still again when Eames runs his product-covered fingers through his hair, his body subtly leaning closer to Eames'.

Eames nudges him. "Stand up. I want to look at you."

"What else is new," Arthur says with a quirk of his lips, but he stands up, spreading his arms.

His clothes are immaculately fitted, flawlessly clinging to the long lines of him. Hair slicked back, eyes sharp and alert, he looks the very image of the perfect point man.

Then Arthur grins and says, "Now you."

At the first touch of Arthur's hands through his hair, Eames realizes why Arthur went so still. It's cold, Arthur's fingers are dragging wet over his scalp, and Eames is having some difficulty breathing.

Then Arthur steps back, looking at him critically. "I liked it better when it was shorter."

"No time to get a haircut." Eames chases that with a small cough, to steady his voice. "At any rate, we should be going."

"Yeah." Arthur doesn't move, though, so Eames stands up and presses their mouths together.

It's a slow, shallow kiss, Arthur's mouth only slightly parts under his, tongue coming out to briefly brush Eames' lips. Eames feels that touch in his entire body. Too much. Regretfully, he holds Arthur at arm's length.

"Can't let ourselves get distracted," he says, sealing himself into the charming persona he wears at work. "Come along, darling."

Arthur tilts his head and narrows his eyes, but follows Eames out the door.

~~

Even walking, they can spare ten minutes to buy coffee. Eames waits outside while Arthur orders for them both, rubbing his hands together to keep warm.

Arthur hands him his cup. Eames allows their fingers to brush together, only for a moment.

"So the job," Arthur says, after a moment's silence.

Their mark is Alonso Carriatti, leader of the Copperheads. They're extracting a drug shipment location. But Arthur knows all this already, this isn’t what he’s asking. Eames inclines his head quizzically.

"So we have an extractor,” Arthur says, “an architect, and you."

"Also a chemist," Eames says. "Apparently it's customary for drug cartel members to have a somnacin allergy induced, to reduce the chances of successful extraction."

Arthur nods in apparent approval. "Okay. So what exactly do I do?"

That's a good question, actually. "Your official role is point man," Eames says, ignoring Arthur's _Get on with it_ expression. "What that means, here and now, is you do all the research that isn't deemed anyone else's job, and – once in the dream – see that everything goes well."

"So, basically," Arthur says, "I'm a dream-gopher." He doesn't sound entirely displeased.

Eames reins in a snort. "Something along those lines," he says.

Arthur gives him a sudden, unexpectedly bright smile. "Sounds like the job for me, all right."

"Quite," Eames says, and doesn't lick the corner of Arthur's mouth because they're in public.

~~

Amber's an old friend of Eames, from the days when they both lived the more traditional sort of criminal life. She nods at them coolly when they reach the hotel.

"Arthur Goldberg," Arthur says, offering her his hand. She shakes it, giving him an appraising look.

"Amber," she says. "I don't do last names." It's half a friendly hint, half cautioning. Eames is slightly embarrassed that he forgot to mention this to Arthur. Most people in this new line of work go by one name, be it first, last, or entirely fictional.

"I'm Marcus Bines," says the architect, coming over to them. "Don't mind the naming conventions. I've seen people do pretty much anything. Including a certain forger who demanded to be called Mistress Raven Dragonwing."

Arthur blinks. "Okay," he says. "That's... good to know." He turns to Amber. "Anything I should know to begin with?"

"We've compiled our materials so far over there," Amber says, pointing to a pile of papers on a rickety desk. "Look it over. Things that need further looking into are highlighted in blue, things that may not be accurate are in yellow, things that appear to be completely beside the point are in pink." She's a neat person, Amber is. It's one of the reasons Eames wanted to work with her first.

"All right," Arthur says. "If I have any questions, I'll ask."

"Greatness." She turns away from Arthur, who goes to sit by the desk and frown at the piles there. She smiles at Eames. "Long time no see, Eamesie."

Eames winces. "I would rather you didn't call me that at the moment."

"Fine," she says, eyebrow rising sharp. "I won't. What have you been doing the last few months?"

Pining over Arthur and dodging Julietta's vengeance, for the most part, but Amber hardly needs to know that. "This and that," Eames says, dismissively. "Keeping busy."

She smiles, the red twist of her mouth that he remembers so well. "Let's show you the mark's wife," she says, linking her arm in his to lead him to the back office.

~~

Arthur handles the blueprints with caution, eyes gleaming in a way Eames isn't familiar with yet, but fully intends to be. It's a good look on Arthur.

"It's like a Karnaugh map," Arthur says. He hardly smiles, only a brief reveal of his incisors. Eames nods sagely, as if he has a fucking idea what that is.

"I thought of it more like something out of loonie toons," Marcus says. He's a pudgy man with a receding hairline, strangely out of place among them. Even Geoffrey, their chemist, is handsome in a muted all-American way. "Or Keystone Kops, really – " He falls into an enthusiastic explanation that Eames entirely fails to appreciate. Arthur's nodding, though, neat little furrow in the center of his forehead. Eames moves away before he can be tempted to kiss it.

He manfully resists the temptation until lunchtime, at which point he stands up and loudly declares he's taking requests. Amber wants wonton soup, so they arrange their orders around that. When Eames reaches Arthur's desk, Arthur hems and haws until Eames suggests, "Come along then."

It's not precisely what Eames planned – he thought perhaps some time away on his own would be best, where he could just move and act as he wished without the contradictory urges of _be professional_ and _kiss Arthur_ making a mess inside his head. Perhaps he ought not to have asked Arthur along; but Eames has never tried to deny his own opportunism.

And beside, it seems silly so try to refuse, with the sun bright over them and the roadside littered with fallen leaves, grass sprouting intermittently through cracks in the sidewalk. It's a little too warm to be as carefully dressed as Arthur is, but he seems at ease, comfortable.

"I like hot weather," he says when Eames mentions it. "I had a winter without heating, in my old apartment." He doesn't shudder, but Eames wants to do that for him. He remembers that place, tiny and hideous, with ground-in filth that even Arthur's diligence couldn't have possibly removed. "Ever since then, fuck it, I want to _sweat_."

Eames approves of this wholeheartedly.

They reach the place they've been ordering from – it's the kind of place students frequent, really, pretentious and with some truly baffling menu choices, but it's cheap and the food is tasty for all that the service is atrocious. Eames gets himself a corned beef sandwich while Arthur opts for sushi with peanut-butter chicken, even though Eames makes no effort to conceal his horror at it.

They sit down to eat while the rest of their order is prepared, out in the sunshine. Arthur is skillful with his chopsticks in a way Eames never managed to learn, and he talks between bites, occasionally waving his free hand for emphasis.

"Right," Arthur says, "and then they had to factor up all our grades by root. Except some of us had negative grades, right, because the lecturer was that much of an asshole. So some of us ended up with complex GPAs."

Eames isn't entirely certain what just happened, but he can tell Arthur thinks it's funny. It's no hardship to laugh, anyway, with joy if not actual mirth. Arthur smiles at him, eyes crinkling and dimples showing, and Eames needs to touch him right this very moment.

"You have," Eames says, miming dabbing something off his face, before rolling his eyes and tracing a thumb across Arthur's cheek to remove a completely imaginary speck.

Arthur narrows his eyes at him, but doesn't actually protest. Moreover, when Eames drops his fork (entirely by accident) Arthur reaches down for it at the same time, miscalculating his reach so that his wrist rubs against Eames'. It’s hard to say for certain, but Eames is fairly sure Arthur doesn't miscalculate _anything_ unless it's on purpose.

Walking back, bag of take-away banging against Eames' leg, he's full of a strange giddiness. The sunlight strikes everything at an odd angle, and combined with the humidity it surrounds everything with an odd shimmery haze that clings to Arthur and makes him look not quite real.

"Eames?" Arthur says. They're nearly back at the hotel.

Without thinking, Eames replies, "Yes, darling?"

It makes Arthur turn to him, briefly, and smile. But it also makes Arthur, the very following second, cringe away, his expression becoming shuttered and unreadable.

"Nevermind," Eames says, mostly to himself, and does not hold the door open for Arthur.

~~

Eames is playing with a pen, clicking it on and off. Every time he clicks, Arthur twitches in his seat. Eames would stop, probably _should_ stop, except that there's something unexpectedly charming about the way Arthur sits up and looks around momentarily, like a startled meerkat.

"Stop it, Eames," Amber says, after the fifth time. "I didn't ask you to come on this job to get on everyone's nerves." To Eames' embarrassment, he only notices then that Geoffrey is looking irritable, too.

Well, serves Geoffrey right, honestly. If Eames has to listen to him go on about the oppression of the creative classes one more time, Eames – well, Eames will likely just roll his eyes and ignore it, but it's entirely possible Arthur will eviscerate him.

(During the last briefing, Arthur had to stop for ten minutes while Geoffrey earnestly explained how drug trafficking was only a symptom of a society too concerned with political correctness and, and conformism to truly appreciate a young man's efforts at –

(Thankfully, at that point Amber stepped in and made him shut up, but it was a close thing. The clench of Arthur's jaw was reaching a disconcerting degree of tightness.)

"If you're getting bored," Amber says, raising an eyebrow, "how about you come here and show me what you've got so far?"

They go under a lot, in general. Geoffrey's compounds need testing – the quality of dreaming itself is pretty much the same no matter what you do, but they need to check for other things. Allergic reactions, for one, and not-otherwise-specified idiosyncratic reactions, which can actually be a lot worse. Eames would easily prefer a rash to a day where he could speak only in rhymes.

This time, Eames goes under to see Amber has made a cozy little den for them to work in. One wall is a mirror, doubtlessly for Eames' benefit. Amber sprawls in a red leather overstuffed chair and puffs on a cigar she conjured out of nowhere.

"Fine living," Eames says dryly, and she laughs.

"I missed you, you bastard," she says.

He smiles at her. "Quite happy to work with you again, myself."

Amber waves her cigar. "Enough mutual masturbation," she says, and there's a knowing tinge to her smile that reminds him of the days they used to do that, too. "I want to see your forge."

"Don't you trust me?" The offense is put on, a game. She's quite right not to trust him, as a matter of fact. She's seen a little of his skills, but in this line of work, Eames must admit that he's new and untried. He can't just transfer his old reputation part and parcel. Some of it must be earned anew.

It’s also, admittedly, a stalling tactic. Of course he intends to show her – and everybody else, by proxy – that he's as good as he ever was, if not better. But there’s perhaps just the tiniest tinge of doubt in his mind that he can do that.

 _Fake it till you make it_ , he thinks, since it’s doubly applicable to this situation. He smiles, and shrugs into his creation.

Elena Carriatti is a beautiful woman, and she knows it. Long dark hair, long slim legs, a cool intelligence in her eyes. Her husband's a powerful man, and she knows more than a little about power herself.

Eames – no, he must be Elena now. H - _She_ turns to Amber with a slight, mocking smile, the one Elena wears in all her pictures. "May I help you, sweetheart?"

Her voice – oh, her voice is just plain _fun_ , the dark cigarette growl of it, her accent. (Eames loves accents, always did, keeps them away in a small corner of his mind, pulling them out just for the way they feel in his mouth. But nevermind, can't think of that now, he's got to be Elena.)

Amber looks unmoved. "Who are you?"

Elena chuckles. "That's a lovely way of putting it, but why are you even asking?" The cadence of the sentence, the way she's shaking her head (don't think, don't think about it, just do, just _be_ ) , "You're the one who called me here, aren't you? Awfully remiss of you to forget my actual name."

"Mrs. Carriatti," Amber says, with some evident satisfaction. "We want to have some words with your husband."

"Go ahead," Elena says, spreading her arms dramatically. "He's got plenty of words for everyone, I'm sure he'll be happy to share."

"Okay," Amber says. "You can drop her, Eames."

Eames does, with no small sense of relief. He shakes his head, a little embarrassed about it - that last exchange, he’d felt her nearly slipping away, had to fight with himself _not_ to grasp for the forge in a way that would have made him drop it completely.

He can feel it, though, how he can come into the forge, the same way he'd assume an identity for a con. He can tell he'll love it, once the initial anxiety has worn away.

"She'll do," Amber says, judiciously. "I liked her voice, you did that well. But you kept some of your own wording in there. Work on that."

Eames could argue with that – from one point of view, the preferable technique isn't to let the forge's appearances subsume his own, but to make them merge to turn the charade more believable – but it's Amber's job and she's calling the shots. He nods.

Amber's smile turns wider, her eyes narrowing in appreciation. "And since that's done with," she puts her cigar to rest in an ashtray, "we've got twenty more minutes in the dream."

"Do we," Eames says, slightly faint.

"Um-hm." She doesn't shrug off her shirt just yet, for which Eames considers himself lucky. Unlucky. He's not even certain anymore.

"I should warn you," Eames says, quiet and tight. "Due to some recent circumstances, I am... not interested in dalliances at work."

She mouths _dalliances?_ at him, eyebrows quirked with amusement. "Why not?"

Eames recalls Arthur's face, set and determined. Arthur, who doesn't do open relationships, who rejected the very idea with a zeal that looked downright frightening in the moment.

"Or is it for the same reason I can't call you nicknames anymore?" Amber's only half-playing. The information she's fishing for is professionally relevant to her, as well as personally so.

"Something like," Eames says. "I'm afraid some of my recent interactions with Julietta have... rather soured me on the idea." It's actually true, in part, which is the best part of making this believable. He's already thinking ahead, trying to come up with other plausible explanations for his sudden “celibacy”.

That wouldn't be so bloody difficult, except that Eames makes friends easily and likes to bed what friends he can. Liked. _Past tense_ , he thinks. _Better get used to that._

Amber looks sympathetic, which is a relief. But she follows that up with, "I suppose I'll have to see if I can't convince you to get over that," which is... less so.

The thing is, Amber's a decent person. If he makes it clear he's uninterested, she'll back off. But she'll want to know why, and Eames can't help but feel he owes her some form of explanation. If she's playing games with him now, it's only because he's played them with her before. It's hardly fair, changing the rules on her like that.

At her subtle nod of permission, he shoots her out of the dream (ladies first, after all) and follows soon after.

When they wake, Arthur's standing next to Eames' lawnchair, wearing a small frown. "Is everything okay?"

"Peachy," Eames says, walking past Arthur without so much as a second look. Even so, he's stung when Arthur goes on to talk to Amber, not even trying to grab Eames' attention, let alone Eames' person.

Their discussion goes on for a while, Amber sketching on the whiteboard while Arthur nods, brow furrowed in concentration. Eames dives into his character sketches and doesn't, absolutely does not sulk.

~~

"We're going to try for a deathbed scene," Arthur says, and Eames can't help a snort.

"Mr. Eames?" Arthur says, eyebrow quirked up. Eames decides he likes that look on Arthur.

"Won't possibly do," Eames says. "Carriatti's a suspicious man. He's bound to notice the transition from sound health to dying gurgles."

"He's in a dangerous line of work," Arthur says. "Put him in a dream, have him wake up with a bullet in his side, bleeding on a sidewalk. A bit of missing memory's easy to dismiss under the circumstances."

"Not as much as you think." Eames rises from his chair, snatches Arthur's marker from him. "If I may," he says, without waiting for Arthur's response.

Eames draws a crude estimation of the dream's structure on the board. It's something easily generalized, from what he gathers; he hasn't interested himself in the particulars. And good thing too, apparently, since Arthur and everyone else were clearly too busy with those to notice they're completely and utterly wrong about Carriatti.

He draws a few arrows. "This is the plan as it is, yeah? Carriatti's here," he marks the spot with an X, "I go in as his wife and try to get whatever I can out of him while simultaneously providing a distraction. Meanwhile, Amber," he marks her as an upside-down A in a circle, catches her grin and returns it, "is here – where the safe is."

The level is an approximation of Carriatti's mansion, with Eames and Carriatti in the master bedroom and Amber in the basement, where Carriatti keeps his actual valuables. The design is almost painfully straightforward, which is part of the problem.

"Now, I don't know if you've noticed," Eames says, tapping the board for emphasis, "but the drugs that Carriatti peddles include Benzofentanil."

Everyone in the room look blank. Except for Geoffrey, bless him, who blinks and says, "That's the active ingredient in somnacine."

"Give the chemist a cookie," Eames says, waving his pen sardonically. "My point being, Carriatti has more than one finger in the dreamsharing pie. He's going to recognize a standard scenario when he sees one."

Arthur's the first to lean forward. "All right. What do you suggest, then?"

Eames glances at Amber. She's sitting at the back of the room, eyes narrowed in concentration. Giving Eames just enough rope to hang himself, if he knows her at all. "Vary it up," he says. "Give him a little more buildup. Some context, if you please."

Arthur snorts. "By which you mean, spend more time around him. Which won't give him time to suspect anything's wrong _at all_."

Eames bends until he's eye-to-eye with Arthur. "Are you slighting my professional abilities?" he asks with a fake lightness that nobody would be fooled by.

"I'm saying it's an unnecessary risk," Arthur says. "Even if he is prepared for the possibility of extraction, that doesn't mean he'll recognize one. It's a gamble either way, but the current plan is safer."

 _Safer._ What is this, an industrial committee? "Oh, excuse me," Eames says, "and here I thought we were here to get results."

"Getting killed isn't a result." Arthur doesn't lean back, doesn't look away from Eames' eyes. There's something pounding inside Eames, a sharp-toothed thrill he can't pause to properly place.

"It's a dream, darling." Arthur flinches at that – minutely, but Eames sees it, sees that so did everyone in the room. "We die, we wake up. No big deal."

"Unless the dreamer dies," Arthur says, and now he's coming right back at Eames, a fire in his eyes that brings honesty to Eames' false smile. "In which case, everything falls apart. May I remind you of what you just said about results?"

"All right," Amber says, standing up with enough force to send her chair slamming into the wall behind her. "Eames, stop the pissing contest and give me your plan. Arthur, sit down and listen."

Arthur does that gracefully enough, although he can't seem to rule the shift in his expression whenever Eames mentions anything that could be even remotely construed as a vulnerable spot in his new plan. Eames is torn between drawing those out just to see Arthur twitch and feeling helpless glee at how _good_ Arthur is, how he sees right through everything Eames says.

When he's done, Amber nods once. "All right. Eames, stay here, I want to go over the rest of the plan with you. Arthur, you can stay and listen if you behave." Arthur nods at this, neither contrite nor angry, and Eames mentally blesses whoever it was that taught Arthur to work in a team. "Marcus, Geoffrey, you can take the night off."

~~

Between the two of them, they figure a compromise out. Eames isn't completely happy with the plan, but Amber's the boss and he defers to her judgment.

Amber stretches with a joint-popping crackle. It's nearly two AM, the hotel lobby growing chill around them. "So. Sleep?" Amber says. "Or more coffee and work through it?"

Arthur shrugs. He doesn't even seem tired, really, though his motions have slowed down, his voice grown quieter. Like he's conserving his strength. Eames, frankly, would quite like to faceplant on a mattress somewhere – he doesn't much care where by now – but it won't do so seem like the only one who needs sleep.

"Go under once more," he says, with false decisiveness. "Just to see how things work together."

"Once more," Arthur says, and to Eames' surprise follows that up with, "and then sleep, I think."

"Works for me." Amber goes to get the PASIV. Eames pushes up his sleeves, slightly annoyed. He wishes he could just walk in short sleeves, but even the springtime weather won't allow that, especially not past midnight.

He lies on the lawn chair, and almost startles when, turning around, he finds Arthur kneeling next to him.

"Your sleeves are a disgrace," Arthur says quietly. With quick, efficient motions he rolls Eames' sleeves back down and folds them up again, neater than Eames ever managed on himself.

Before Eames can react, Amber comes back. Arthur is already lying on the other chair, rolling up his own sleeve.

~~

After that, the time up to the job itself goes quickly. Eames treads a fine line with Elena – working to be familiar enough with her that nothing Carriatti is likely to bring up will catch him by surprise, not so familiar that he's muttering dates and anecdotes to himself rather than keeping to the general character concept.

It's fascinating, too, to see how Arthur responds to the pressures of the job. He becomes quieter, in general, but not subdued in the least – to Eames, he feels like a spring, all controlled coiled tightly and waiting to be let loose. He has an answer for everything he's asked – doesn't even have to think about anything, like he holds the entire setup in his head.

He also keeps his distance from Eames. Eames tries to neither pout nor resort to dramatic shows of affection. As an unhappy medium, he bothers Arthur, just for the sake of any reaction that isn't polite withdrawal.

Arthur responds to this with surprising grace, even when Eames is quite obviously riling him on purpose.

"Mind you," Eames says, as they're going over the blueprints another time, "I wonder at what we do sometimes, don't you?" This is aimed at Geoffrey, who inclines his head at Eames, raising his eyebrows.

"I mean to say," Eames continues, "the whole moral implications of this. Breaking into minds, stealing ideas – "

He's forced to break this line of conversation off – despite the fact that Geoffrey's obviously taking in breath for a long, involved explanation of his mangled ideas of ethics – because Arthur rose smoothly from his chair and left the room without a word.

Eames' first urge, at this, is to excuse himself as well and see what's the matter with Arthur; but that's very clearly Boyfriend Behavior (well – spouse behavior, since Eames went to the trouble of forging those documents), and just as clearly a very bad idea.

So he waits, nodding politely whenever Geoffrey stops to take a breath, and only leaves after Geoffrey gets a call from his girlfriend and goes outside to take it.

Arthur's climbed up to the roof. Eames follows him there, cursing the rickety ladder left there by the previous occupants of the place, who obviously didn’t care at all about style, nor about security.

The wind is chilly there, on the rooftop. Arthur doesn't look cold at all, even though he's left his jacket downstairs. Eames begins to suspect that Arthur just doesn't believe in plain human discomfort.

He closes the trapdoor with a kick and drapes his own jacket over Arthur's shoulders. Arthur moves away – instinct, by this point.

"There's no one here," Eames says. "Nobody can see."

It's heartening, maybe, to see Arthur lean back, his posture soften. "I'm not like you." Arthur's voice isn't quite warning. There's something about it that makes Eames ache. "I can only be one person at a time."

Eames huffs a surprised laughter. "Did you think I could be more?"

Arthur looks at him, up and over his shoulder. It makes his eyelashes stand out against his cheeks. There's an odd sharpness to that image, something Eames thinks he'll remember still when he'd old and everything else has faded away. "You are all the time," Arthur says. "You're – you're three different people whenever anybody looks at you." There's something confused in Arthur's tone, almost hurt.

"I'm just me," Eames says, voice startled soft. "I'm never anything more or less."

Arthur shakes his head. It makes his head press into Eames' shoulder, and Eames relishes that, the warmth of Arthur's skin seeping through his shirt. "I don't think I understand you at all."

"I've never understood you, darling." Eames cups a hand around Arthur's neck. "That's half the fun."

Arthur doesn't answer, but he does put his hand over Eames'. After a minute he removes Eames' hand to kiss the center of his palm, stare at it as if there was truth to all that nonsense about life lines.

He turns to look at Eames. "Promise me you won't do any stupid shit on the job."

"Why would I do that?" Eames says, reasonably. "What could I possibly stand to gain by that?"

Arthur's eyes narrow. "I have my suspicions." He continues to glare at Eames until Eames promises, laughing, and darts to kiss Arthur's scowling mouth.

~~

He doesn't even see Arthur, the morning of the job.

He hasn't seen Arthur most mornings. They can't actually share a hotel room – Eames offered, back in the beginning, but backed away fast at the sight of Arthur's expression. Right, Arthur has a hard time shifting gears. Noted. Please stop giving me that look, darling.

But that morning he doesn't even see him at their headquarters. Arthur's gone to secure the mark, along with Geoffrey and Amber. Eames dearly hopes that Geoffrey will manage to shut up, just this one time. It's Arthur's first time in the field, he can hardly afford to be distracted.

This leaves Eames alone with Marcus, who nods at him affably and mutters to himself over the final designs. They did it over a number of times, tearing things apart and rebuilding them, until Marcus threw a Styrofoam model at Amber and there was some generalized yelling about him being an architect, not a design program.

"So," Eames ventures. "How do you like our end result?"

Marcus shrugs. "How would you like it if you worked over something for a month, then some entitled ass came, tore it apart, and told you to make something completely different from scratch?" The thing is, he doesn't even sound bitter or angry. He sounds like he genuinely wants to know.

Eames pretends to think. "Like a government contractor," he says, which startles a laugh out of Marcus.

"Yeah, that's about right," he says, and there's the situation brought back to ease again.

When Eames makes interested noises, Marcus gives him a show of the finished dreamscape as seen in the model. Eames knows the layout, obviously. The dreamscape they decided on is fashioned after a multi-story car park, shaped after one where their sources suspect those deals normally take place. But Eames is meant to stay by Carriatti, so he's been remiss in keeping up-to-date with all the little shortcuts.

Sadly, Eames can't even regret this decision. He's fast coming to the conclusion that near everyone in the dreamsharing business have undergone some kind of training that bends their minds until they see in loops. Eames can't, actually, understand why it's obvious that a man who runs off one edge of the dreamscape _here_ should emerge _there_ or exit the dream entirely; but he nods and grunts, which seems to satisfy Marcus.

Eames makes a note to himself. Find out what that training _is_ , and get himself subjected to it as soon as possible.

In the meanwhile, he contents himself with knowing that his is a bloody rare skill, particularly at any level beyond shallow appearances. In this field of twisty thinkers, there are surprisingly few talented actors. Though Eames supposes that will change, the more widespread extraction becomes.

~~

"I think – " Eames says (Elena says), and there’s the sharp crack of a gun going off.

She gasps as Alonso falls to the ground, a muted _thud_ in the aftermath of firing. She scrabbles to kneel beside him, to press her hands to the wound.

(Would Elena Carriatti know how to treat gunshot wounds? Likely, possible – _mind the job, Eames._ )

"Darling," she says ( _wrong word, she doesn't use that, she says_ sweetheart), "sweetie, hold on. Hold on for me."

Alonso smiles at her, and Eames may not be perfect at this but that expression, he knows. That expression he does not want to see while he's working, goddamnit.

"Not bad," he whispers, "but she's never that nice to me in life."

Of all things, Eames gets the idiotic urge to _argue_ with him – _How do you know, she's never seen you dying before_ – but he cans it so say, tearfully, "Alonso, please."

"Good job holding that up, though." Alonso sounds almost admiring. "Shame it won't help you."

At which point Eames looks up to see the ninjas.

They're coming out of everywhere – literally everywhere, materializing from shadows like Great Cthulhu rising from a puddle. One of them pops up right under Eames, and Eames is forced into some seriously undignified moves to get away and slit his throat before he sends Eames out of the dream.

"Eames!" Arthur yells from somewhere overhead. Eames has just enough time between two parrying slashes (last time he enters a dream without conjuring a gun – no, fuck that, next time he's conjuring a bloody grenade launcher) to see Arthur, five stories overhead.

"Doing fine!" Eames says, dodging a kick to his throat. "See to Amber!"

But Arthur completely ignores him, just yells "Hold on!" and –

Jumps.

For a moment, Eames forgets about the ninjas, forgets about Carriatti, forgets that they're in a bloody dream where nothing that happens will matter. He can only see Arthur, diving at the ground, and think with sick apprehension of the sound of bone crunching against asphalt, the dull _splat_ of a body hitting down with all the power of the fall behind it.

Then Arthur turns in mid-dive, bends impossibly – _he's going to hit the wall_ , Eames thinks, frantic, only barely blocking the ninja trying to garrote him – twists sideways and disappears.

Eames blinks for a moment before he's distracted by motion from the opposite wall. Where Arthur reappears. With a momentum that sends him crashing through all Eames' opponents, until he's lying on a pile of fallen ninjas.

He's up in a tick, before Eames can even say anything, hopping from the pile to the ground. One ninja raises his head. Arthur frowns and bends to lift it by the hair and bash it against the ground.

"I told you I was fine," Eames says, in as peeved a voice as he can manufacture at the moment.

"We might as well scrap this part," Arthur says, matter-of-fact, and kicks a nearby ninja when he groans. "Come with me, we'll go help Amber crack the safe."

"Right," Eames says, faintly. He doesn't grab Arthur's shoulder, because if he touches Arthur at all he's quite likely to succumb to the next temptation on the list, which is to fall to his knees and press his face into Arthur's crotch, just to rest his head there, breathe Arthur in.

Arthur hands him a gun, for which Eames is quite grateful. "Let's find Amber," Arthur says, loading his own gun. Eames clicks the safety off, nods and follows.

~~

In the end, the job is a success, albeit a messy one. Eames and Arthur take pot shots at the projection while Geoffrey and Amber crack the safe, then Geoffrey joins the fight while Amber memorizes the data.

After leaving the dream, they pack everything up in record speed and split up. Eames makes his way towards the airport in a rented car, something growing heavier in him with every mile.

There's no reason Eames should feel this way. The job is done, his pay is on the way, his plans are set. Everything is as it should be.

Yet he can't help but think of the last few moments of the dream, Arthur with his hands so sure on the trigger, the little splatter of blood on his cheek that Eames mindlessly whipped out his pocket square to wipe off. Arthur drawing back, and Amber's impatient _Quit bugging him, Eames._

They're silly things to worry about, to be sure. But silly things have a way of accumulating when one doesn't pay enough mind to them, and Eames would rather worry now than be sorry later.

He's supposed to meet Arthur again in Paris, but for once Eames decides to be stupid. He stops by the roadside and slides his cellphone open.

 _Meet me in the Granada_ , he texts Arthur. The Granada is prearranged code for the hotel they _could_ meet at, one of Amber's neat little emergency procedures.

Eames has checked into the room by the time Arthur arrives, standing by the open door. He seems wary as a feral cat, looking at Eames where he's sitting on the bed, taking off his shoes.

"Please come in," Eames says, pleasantly. Arthur twitches at that, too, but thankfully he closes the door behind him. Once he does, though, something goes out of him, some strange tension Eames can't identify except by its lack.

"Yeah," he says, smiling down as Arthur flops down on the bed beside him, grinning like a loon.

"We pulled it off," Arthur says, a little breathless. Not nearly breathless enough for Eames' liking, so he kisses Arthur until he gasps, letting all his weight rest on Arthur, who can take it, who can take down armies of projections and flinch away from a single touch, and then lie on his back and wrap his arms around Eames as though nothing happened.

And he says Eames is the one who can be many people. Eames would shake his head in dismay if it didn't mean separating his mouth from Arthur's.

It makes him angry, almost. Not quite enough that he'll stop and demand – an apology, an explanation, Eames doesn't even know what he wants from Arthur except that he stay still and be kissed.

Arthur seems happy to comply with that.

In fact, Arthur lets Eames do whatever he damn well pleases. When Eames pins Arthur's arm to the bed, Arthur arches against him and doesn't even try to struggle, keeping them there even when Eames takes his hands away. There's a sign there, something Eames ought to read, but he's too tired to try to understand, to puzzle it out and put everything together.

His impulse is to ask Arthur what he wants, but he halfway wants to do the opposite immediately after. It's not a very mature response, but Eames hasn't gotten to where he is in life by ignoring his instincts. Eames' instincts are saying, _Take everything he'll give you._

And Arthur, Arthur seems like he'll give him _anything_ , right this moment.

It makes Eames bold, possibly even a little rash. Before he knows it, he's kneeling between Arthur's spread legs, rubbing slick fingers over Arthur's hole while Arthur tosses his head and moans "No, yes, no," like he can't decide.

Eames stops, just to be a bastard. "What were you saying?"

"Fuck." Arthur's panting, which is a very encouraging response to Eames' mind. "Just. Put it in me."

"Care to give me greater detail, Arthur?" To tell the truth, though, Eames isn't even sure it would be physically possible for him to fuck Arthur now. He feels so tight that even a finger would be a struggle.

Arthur raises his head, and the look in his eyes is the clear, focused one he had on the job, and _fuck_ , Eames apparently has a new turn on he knew nothing about, how about that. "Mr. Eames," Arthur says, in the composed voice that sends shivers down Eames' spine, "I want you to put your fingers in me. And then I want you to put your cock in me. And then," his voice hitches on that, possibly because Eames' finger has slid a fraction of an inch inside, "I want you to fuck me until I come."

"Mmm." Eames pinches Arthur's nipple with his free hand, just to make him swear. "How about my orgasm, hm, Arthur? Is that not included in your little scenario?"

"Completely incidental," Arthur says, but he ends that with a gasp as Eames twists his finger and it slides in to the second knuckle. "I. Fuck. _Eames_." The whine that escapes Arthur's throat after that is beautiful, as is the scrabble of his long, elegant fingers over the sheets.

"Well," Eames says, judiciously, "as my orgasm is clearly of no import, I – "

"Shut up and fuck me already," Arthur groans, and Eames grins and obliges him, at least where the first part of that sentence is concerned.

The second part is easier said than done – as previously mentioned, Arthur's _tight_ , to a degree where Eames wonders whether it might not be easier to finger him to orgasm and rub on off on his stomach or somesuch.

Eames briefly gets lost in that image – Arthur, twisting around a single finger in his ass as though it was the hugest cock in existence, swearing and crying and literally coming when Eames crooks his finger – but before he notices it his finger's sunk in to the last knuckle, and Arthur's fucking himself back on it, thighs open and so tempting to bite that Eames can't help himself.

"Any day now," Arthur says, and if he can keep that snotty edge to his voice, Eames is clearly not doing a sufficiently thorough job.

He puts another finger in Arthur, which has the extremely satisfying effect of making him swallow and say, "Fuck, Eames, _please_."

Eames could certainly stand to hear more of this.

He settles where he is, eyes ravenously wandering over Arthur's naked body, the soft definition in his stomach, the long line of his neck, and biting occasionally wherever he's looking. Arthur says nothing to discourage this – quite the opposite, in face, arching up into Eames' mouth.

Eames hasn't realized he stopped the slow push and withdrawal of his fingers until Arthur curses and scratches at his back. "Eames. Damnit. _Move._ "

"Ask nicely," Eames says, distracted by Arthur's nipple hardening under his lips.

"Please," Arthur says. But not immediately. There's a long moment first where he tries to fuck himself on Eames' fingers. It doesn't help him much. Eames doesn't let him get enough of a grip on the sheets, shifts his hold subtly so that Arthur can't actually move much.

But he does ask, and Eames does give him what he asks for. Eventually.

It's nice enough that Eames repeats it on the next thrust, keeping his fingers just at Arthur's entrance, watching him twist and shiver and try to get himself fucked any other way than asking for it.

Arthur's a quick study, though. The third time, when Eames waits with his fingers poised to shove back inside, Arthur closes his eyes and says, "Please," soft, unprompted.

Eames can't deny him, then, but it seems like Arthur can't stop once he's begun. It's "please" at every thrust of Eames' fingers, shaky drawn breaths every time Eames slides his fingers out (slow, oh so slow, Arthur's body clinging to him like Eames is something necessary), soft at first then louder and louder until Arthur's sobbing, "Eames, please, fuck."

Eames stops, then, not because he's a bastard, but because the pleading feels like something that needs to be drawn out of Arthur, a pent-up excess that needs release. "Say what you need, darling." It comes out quiet, almost tender, and Arthur takes a long harsh breath and says, "Fuck me."

It's only when Eames presses inside that he remembers. No wonder, no fucking wonder Arthur's so tight. That night, the only other time he'd ever fucked Arthur – that was Arthur's first time, and fuck if Arthur even bothered to so much as mention this until Eames was halfway inside him.

That's not a memory Eames wants to cherish, Arthur's eyes wide in what he was late to recognize as panic, the short jagged rhythm of his breath, his muscles turning stone-hard under Eames, body twisted on itself as though it wanted nothing so much as to be away from all this.

This, though. Arthur's body striving up towards his, eye wide with lust rather than fear.

Eames thinks he needs to create a better memory, and he needs to do it right now.

So he hardly even pushes inside, just gets the head of his cock past the first ring of muscle, and waits.

"What the hell," Arthur says. Eames won't let him move, pinning him down with his weight, kissing Arthur periodically to keep him breathless.

"Ask," Eames says, directly into Arthur's ear, "and you shall receive."

Arthur groans, and Eames can't even tell if that's desire or exasperation.

Arthur's more stubborn now, holding out longer before he grinds out, "Fuck me. Please."

"How?" Eames speaks very quietly, mouth right at Arthur's ear. "Do you want it hard? Or should I go easy on you?"

"Fuck you," Arthur says, and Eames doesn't reply because honestly, he's above such obviousness.

"How, Arthur," he says, and comes another small increment inside.

Arthur makes a small, sweet sound that makes its way directly to Eames' gut, but he holds strong. He's made his request, and now Arthur must comply. Or not.

"Fuck me," Arthur says, "hard. Please." He emphasizes this with a shimmy of his hips that drives Eames just a tiny bit deeper.

Eames groans. "See, Arthur," he says, pushing, as slow as humanly possible, "I don't think that's what you want. And until you ask for what you really want," he stops completely.

"Until then, you can't have anything."

Arthur snarls, struggles and scratches at Eames, but it's nothing Eames can't take and feel loved. He knows Arthur doesn't truly want him off, because if that's what Arthur wanted, Eames would _be_ off.

And he knows he was right because when Arthur settles down, he draws a breath and whispers what he wants right into Eames' ear, so soft he can barely hear it.

"Oh, love," Eames says, and Arthur doesn't even object, only raises his face blindly to kiss Eames, his hands wrapping around Eames' shoulders.

So Eames kisses him and kisses him, and fucks him slow and careful and gentle, as he should be, as he wants to be, jacking him until Arthur arches his back and comes, the curve of his jaw and throat painting itself sharp in Eames' mind, the better to preserve for future lonely nights.

He stays still, after, buried deep in Arthur, torn between fucking until he comes and just staying there, in that sweet warmth that clings to him like it wants him just where he is.

"Please," Arthur says again, nosing at Eames' jaw, in the soft skin behind his ear. "Come for me. Please."

And Eames does, without moving a single muscle.

~~

It's only a few hours before they have to part again. They're flying to Paris separately, and Eames' flight leaves soon enough that he really must go. Arthur's still sleeping when he leaves, curled into the bedding so the chilly air can't come in after him. _He really doesn't care for the cold_ , Eames thinks, and something goes soft in him at the thought, and reshapes itself.

 _This_ , Eames thinks, _is going to take some getting used to._

Eames has been travelling without more luggage than he can carry in a backpack for a long time. He's not accustomed to this, as he takes a taxi to the airport, as he boards the flight: the feeling of having left something behind.


End file.
